With stories told of many a feat,
    How fairy MAB the junkets eat. 
    She was pinched, and pulled, she said: 
    And he, by friar’s lanthern led,
    Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
    To earn his cream-bowl duly set;
    When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
    His shadowy Flail hath threshed the corn
    That ten day-labourers could not end. 
    Then lies him down the lubbar Fiend;
    And, stretched out all the chimney’s length,
    Basks at the fire his hairy strength: 
    And, crop-full, out of door he flings
    Ere the first cock his Matins rings.

Mr. M. seems indeed to have a turn for this species of Nursery Tales and prattling Lullabies; and, if he will studiously cultivate his talent, he need not despair of figuring in a conspicuous corner of Mr NEWBERY’s shop window:  unless indeed Mrs. TRIMMER should think fit to proscribe those empty levities and idle superstitions, by which the World has been too long abused.

From these rustic fictions, we are transported to another species of hum.

Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men; Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold:  With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the Prize Of Wit or Arms; while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend.

To talk of the bright eyes of Ladies judging the Prize of Wit is indeed with the Poets a legitimate species of humming:  but would not, we may ask, the rain from these Ladies’ bright eyes rather tend to dim their lustre?  Or is there any quality in a shower of influence; which, instead of deadening, serves only to brighten and exhilarate?

Whatever the case may be, we would advise Mr. M. by all means to keep out of the way of these “Knights and Barons bold”:  for, if he has nothing but his Wit to trust to, we will venture to predict that, without a large share of most undue influence, he must be content to see the Prize adjudged to his competitors.

Of the latter part of the Poem little need be said.

The Author does seem somewhat more at home when he gets among the Actors and Musicians:  though his head is still running upon ORPHEUS and EURYDICE and PLUTO, and other sombre personages; who are ever thrusting themselves in where we least expect them, and who chill every rising emotion of mirth and gaiety.

He appears however to be so ravished with this sketch of festive pleasures, or perhaps with himself for having sketched them so well, that he closes with a couplet which would not have disgraced a STERNHOLD.

    These delights if thou canst give,
    Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Of Mr. M.’s good intentions there can be no doubt; but we beg leave to remind him that there are two opinions to be consulted.  He presumes perhaps upon the poetical powers he has displayed, and considers them as irresistible:  for every one must observe in how different a strain he avows his attachment now, and at the opening of the Poem.  Then it was